Shades of Gray
by Sanddobby
Summary: Draco is hurting himself, and he needs help. The problem is, when Harry discovers that he cares enough to help, it may be too late. Is it? H/D slash all the way!!!!
1. Draco

Hey, sup yo, ma homies! This is my first real attempt at really depressing angst, cutting, rape, attempted suicide, and of course, H/D slash! It's also my first attempt at first person. So if it's bad then live with it. I don't know how I can hurt my poor baby Dracypoo like this, but I can. Rated R for language, mature themes, rape, cutting, and attempted suicide.  
  
Note: this story takes place in the around the seventh year at hogwarts. Everybody is 17.  
  
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Chapter one: The Smell of Hate, The Smell of Death (Christmas Holidays, Malfoy Manor, Draco's POV)  
  
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I sit on a stool before the full-length mirror by my window. I am holding a long, bloodstained kitchen knife that I keep hidden under my bed. The window is open, and the cold winter night air bites my bare chest. I look into the mirror, and see myself. Silver blonde hair, falling in my face without the usual gel I use to keep it back. Silver eyes that even I can't bear to look into. Pale skin, seemingly flawless on my face, but a hideous mass of scars on my chest and arms. Some from innocent accidents, such as falling down the stairs. Some from my father's terrifying 'punishments'. And some that I gave myself. Some have told me that I am attractive, handsome, and even beautiful. But how can anyone even bear to look at me, when I can't even bear to look at myself?  
  
I hate myself. I am worthless. Everyone knows it. My friends would know it, if I had any. Those fools, Crabbe and Goyle, don't give a shit about me. They fear me, so they pretend to be my friends to earn my protection. But I see right through that. My mother would know that I am worthless, if she paid any attention to me. Ever since I turned 13, and I began changing from her little boy into the man I am now, she has been acting like she doesn't even know who I am. Occasionally we exchange hellos when we meet in the hall, or at dinner. But we never speak other then that. Perhaps it's because I'm 17 now, and she thinks that I don't need her. And father. If it weren't for the fact that he needed an heir, then he'd have killed me long ago, for I am worthless. I don't even deserve my self-pity. I don't even deserve the pain I am about to feel.  
  
I hold the knife against by arm. Not my wrist yet. I don't want to die yet. I press the cold blade into my skin, and draw it back, making a cut about eight inches long along the underside of my arm, and about ½ an inch deep. Intense pain shoots up my arm, branches out at my shoulder, moves throughout my body, causing me to shudder. My blood pours out of the wound, thick, crimson blood. It runs down my arm, drips onto my white silk pants, spatters on the spotless white marble floor. I don't care about the mess. The house elves will clean it. They are not unaccustomed to cleaning blood off my floor. The smell of fresh blood reaches my nostrils. I love that smell. It's the smell of hate. I love it, and hate it. Just like I love and hate him.  
  
Shit. How did he manage to worm his way into my thoughts? I don't want to think about him. I shouldn't be thinking about him. But I can't help it. I can't stop thinking about him.  
  
Harry Potter. My greatest rival, my greatest love. I love him. I cannot stop loving him, not matter how hard I try. I should not love him. It hurts so much to love him, and to know that he will never love me in return. It hurts more then anything. More then knives, whips, chains, curses, anything my father thinks to throw at me, or I think to throw at myself.  
  
Yet I love it. I love the pain. There are few things in this world that are real and solid that I can hold onto. One of them is pain. Pain is real. Pain is solid. Unlike love. Love is not real. You cannot physically feel it, just the pain that is causes.  
  
Yet, I admit to myself that I am in love. It seems quite ironic, doesn't it? For someone like me, who has never received more love then the absolute minimum a parent must give his or her child, and has never believed in love, is able to feel love, and admit to himself that it is love. For what else could it be? Whenever I see him, my heart skips a beat. My breath catches in my throat. I can't take my eyes off him. If I dared to speak, I am sure that I would start babbling like an idiot. So I keep silent. I keep silent most of the time these days anyway, so it isn't very difficult.  
  
But it is difficult. I want to tell him, need to tell him how I feel about him. I want to walk up to him, and say, "Harry, I love you." I chuckle. Then what would his reaction be?  
  
"Oh Draco, I love you too."  
  
Not likely. I would probably just get a punch in the face, or a hex or something. So, I won't tell him. I can't tell him. I will never tell him. No matter how much it hurts. I'll just grit my teeth and bear it. It will all be over soon, I hope. All the pain will be over. Soon, no one will be able to hurt me. Not Harry, not my father, not myself. Soon.  
  
Soon.  
  
A freezing cold breeze blows thought the still open window, bringing with it a slight sprinkling of snow. It gently touches my face, the wet snowflakes landing in my skin and melting slowly away. The cold brings me back to reality, and for the moment I forget about Harry. A stronger wind begins to blow through the window, carrying more snow. I look outside, and snow is falling form the harsh, black-gray sky above. I shiver with the cold. I look down. The blood on my arm is beginning to freeze. I had forgotten about my arm. On the floor is a huge puddle of blood. It is beginning to dry at the edges. I hate dried blood. It's not like fresh blood. It has changed from beautiful bright crimson to an ugly maroon. The smell makes me sick. It's the smell of death.  
  
I ring for a house elf to clean the mess. Normally I would leave it, and let the comforting smell of hate to lull me to sleep. But there is no more hate here. Only death. I retire to the bathroom to bandage my cut, and to change into some warm, clean pajamas. I know that the blood will be gone when I return. I am glad. I hate death. I love pain, hate, rage, and depression. But not death. Never death.  
  
That's probably why I'm not dead yet.  
  
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And that's just the end of chapter one! Ok, it was a bit short, but it was hard!!!!!!!!!!! This was a little compulsive, so it might take me a while to figure out where the plot is going. Don't worry. I have all of Thanksgiving week off from school, so and I have been doing a lot of HP stuff lately (I just saw the movie for the second time two days ago), so it won't be hard. And of course, I have had a lot of help from more experienced angst writers. Thanx u guys! And thanx to all my friends (well, actually only two- Kit Maxwell and Tiggerjojo) who previewed this and helped me get it perfect!  
  
Luv ya all!  
  
Grath 


	2. Harry

Howdy ya'll! Hey, thanx 4 all the reviews. I feel loved ^-^! This chapter was really hard. I had to set the stage for my dark, depressed, bad boy Harry ( and aren't we all dying to see one of those). He'll come along in chapter 3 or 4.  
  
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Chapter 2: How Can I Know Anything, If I Don't Know Myself First? (Christmas Holidays, Hogwarts, Harry's POV)  
  
  
  
I toss and turn in my bed in Gryffindor tower. For some reason, I cannot sleep. I slide noiselessly out from between the red silk sheets, so as not to wake the others. I tiptoe over to the window nearest to my bed, and sit on the red velvet cushion of the window seat. The silvery-white moonlight shines through the glass, illuminating the room behind me.  
  
I have been thinking everything over this week. I have had little else to do, while Hermione is at her home, and Ron seemingly off in his own little world. He has been acting quite strange lately. I have caught him staring blankly off into space numerous times, and sometimes he ignores me completely, like I don't exist.  
  
As terrible at it seemed at first, it actually proved to be a blessing. It has left me time to be alone with my thoughts. I need that time alone, too. So much has been on my mind lately, mostly about these past two years, my sixth year and half of my seventh year. Everything's been changing so much. I need some time to sort things out. Now that I have it, I begin to go through the things troubling me one by one.  
  
First, there is the matter of my fame. I am sick of it. What am I famous for, anyway? For a silly little scar? Or for defeating Voldemort numerous times, all completely by fluke? For example, that time with the basilisk in my second year. If Fawkes or the Sorting Hat hadn't come, then I would be dead. And last year, when I met him again on a field outside school grounds. If he hadn't tripped on that rock (I'm still pondering how that happened), giving me time to immobilize him, I would be dead. Even the first time I faced him, when I was a baby, if it wasn't for my mother's sacrifice, I would be dead.  
  
Yet everyone gawks at me as if I'm special or something. I'm not. I'm just a normal, 17-year-old wizard, who just happens to be very lucky. I hate it. I hate all of it. The fame, the fortune, the everything. Sometimes I think everything would be easier if everyone just left me alone. Sometimes I wish I were invisible. Then everyone would leave me alone.  
  
Then, there are everyone's expectations of me. Everyone expects me to be perfect. Everyone expects me to save the world from Voldemort, and to destroy him once and for all. Everyone expects me to be the -est at everything. The smartest, the fastest, the strongest, the bravest, the best at everything. Well, here's some news for you, world. I'm not. I'm not the -est at anything. I'm average. Just plain average. I'm not special at all. 'But,' someone might say, 'look at all your accomplishments. You've faced Voldemort (in some form or another) every year for six years, and you've defeated him every time. You have loads of friends, and you were a prefect the last two years. You're great.' I'd laugh. 'Ha!' I'd say, 'that's what you think. You weren't there the six years that I defeated Voldemort almost completely by fluke every time. And the loads of friends? They only like me because of my fame. I only have two true friends, Hermione and Ron. And I'm not even sure about Ron anymore. I do admit that I am a little proud about the prefect thing, but it seems like anyone can become a prefect these days. I bet even Draco Malfoy could become a prefect, if he wanted.  
  
That brings up another topic of thought. Draco. Yes, Draco Malfoy. I know it isn't my business, but I think something's wrong with him. He has been acting so strange these past two years. Instead of the Draco that I used to know, with the sneering mouth, snide remarks, and the usual gang of Slytherins hanging around him, he has become something different. He has become silent, withdrawn, and solitary. I frequently see him aimlessly walking around the castle, by himself. Once, I saw him sitting by himself on a bench in one of the courtyards. I purposely tripped on nothing in particular, just to see if he would say something sarcastic and cruel, like he used to do. He didn't even smile.  
  
I don't know why I worry. I hate Draco. Or so I thought, until he changed like this. I feel like I'm losing an old friend. Or maybe I feel like I'm losing something else. maybe I worry for some other reason.  
  
I shake my head. "No, Harry." I murmur, "Don't think like that. You do NOT have feelings for Draco Malfoy."  
  
'And yet,' a voice in my head whispers, 'can you be sure?'  
  
'Of course I can.' I think, 'For one thing, I am perfectly straight. I do NOT like other men, never mind Draco.'  
  
'Yet,' the little voice persists, 'you frequently find yourself staring at him. You find yourself wanting to talk to him, to make him laugh, to make him smile, to make him happy. You find yourself caring about what he feels. You do have some feelings for him. Feelings beyond friendship.'  
  
'No!' I mentally yell at the voice, biting my lip in denial. 'Don't say that! Please!'  
  
'All I'm saying,' retorts the voice, 'is that you should reconsider before you think that you know yourself completely.'  
  
'I do know myself.' I think, in a feeble attempt to argue. But the voice is gone. I think about what it said. 'You should reconsider before you think that you know yourself completely,' it said. 'Maybe I should reconsider before I think I know myself completely.' I think. 'Everything has been changing so much, and everything is so strange now. I feel like I don't know anything. But I didn't think I changed that much. I thought I knew myself.' I sigh. 'Maybe I don't know myself as well as I thought. And if I don't know myself, how can I know anything at all? IS it possible that I DO have feelings for Draco Malfoy?'  
  
I shake my head. I don't want to think that right now. I stand, and climb back into bed. I close my eyes and relax, trying to get to sleep. In the bed next to me, Ron is mumbling in his sleep, something about 'fried turkey'. Across the room, Neville is snoring to raise the dead. Seamus is mostly silent, though he lets out a little moan every few minutes. I doubt I will get any sleep tonight.  
  
And it's not just because of the noise.  
  
  
  
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That's it! I know it's short, but I don't care. It's good (I hope) and that's what matters.  
  
Luv ya all!  
  
Grath 


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